


The things we lose

by ingride



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingride/pseuds/ingride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end.</p>
<p>A reincarnation au based on this post: http://ofchagny.tumblr.com/post/115940815634/justiceanders-reincarnation-au-where-enjolras-is</p>
<p>"justiceanders: reincarnation!au where enjolras is only five years old and talks about his eight imaginary friends he believes follow him everywhere he goes. he has tea parties with the ones named combeferre and courfeyrac, he is absolutely positive that it’s jehan who makes the flowers grow out in his mother’s garden, bahorel protects him from the monsters under his bed, and he’s positive it’s grantaire who makes the rain fall whenever he is sad. no one is certain where they all even came from or how they all came to be but there isn’t a single day where he doesn’t mention them"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things we lose

**Author's Note:**

> Oops

_The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end._

Gabriel had always been a pensive little boy; he was always get a funny look on his face like he was remembering something from years ago. Of course, he was only five – the farthest back he could possibly remember was two weeks ago at the park. His mother, Marie, loved to tell friends and family that he was like an old man wrapped inside a little boy’s body.

He had always been an odd child, too. At age three, he insisted on being called Enjolras. Marie had been wary, to say the least. Where did he pick up such a name? She concluded in the end that it must have been from one of his cartoons – like those Ninja Turtle things. Plus, countless articles on Parenting-dot-com said that it was perfectly normal. So, henceforth, Marie’s little blonde boy was known as the great Enjolras (unless, of course, she was cross with him).

It was all very normal for a while. He was like most children – he played with toys, and he watched cartoons, and he refused to eat his vegetables. The teachers at his nursery school saw little wrong with him; he was terribly shy, yes, but that was not an uncommon thing for kids of his age.

One day, in the spring, he joined his mother for some “much needed outdoors time”, as he sat far too much in front of the television. She was planting lilies, among other flowers, and allowed for her five-year-old son to give her a hand. There was a brightly colored ray of lilies and pansies spread throughout the small garden, and it was a satisfying sight after a bitter winter. Enjolras looked satisfied too.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Marie asked, wiping dirt off of her bottom lip. She tossed her stained gloves into the tool box, all the while watching her sons face. He had pure delight in his eyes and in his smile; he looked happier than she’d ever seen him.

“Thank you Jehan!” he announced, preparing to march off inside. Marie coughed, confused by his reaction.

“Sorry, what?” she asked the boy. Enjolras looked up at her with innocent blue eyes, as he though he didn’t remember what he’d just said.

“My name is Mommy,” Marie reminded him, bending down to tickle his swollen stomach. “Mommy! What is that you just called me, silly?”

“Jehan. He makes the flowers healthy.” And with that, the little boy skipped back inside, his hands parallel to the ground like he was flying a plane.

Marie made a face, but inevitably forgot about the incident. But, as it turned out, Enjolras had lots of funny names in his head.

He played tea party quite often with an old set of teacups from Marie’s childhood, and with his little sister Eve. There was a little red table that he set up in the yard, and there was always two empty chairs on either side of him.

“Who is it at your tea party today, then, my angels?” Marie asked them nearly every day. She would always bring them lemonade as pretend tea, and they would always look up at her with exasperated smiles.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac, of course, Mommy!”

“Well, can I play with you?”

“No, no, not today. We’re doing business.”

It was funny incidences like that – ones that Marie told all her friends about, in the way that moms often do when they want to brag about how adorable their kid is. She always laughed when Enjolras blamed Joly for a missing toy, or when he’d give his dinner vegetables to Bossuet, or when he told his cousins not to be afraid of monsters under the bed because Bahorel would protect them.

All children had imaginary friends, and perhaps Enjolras was so invested in his because he was simply shy, and had difficulty making real ones.

It was quite funny until Enjolras’s father, Louis, got out of bed one night for a glass of water and heard mindless chatter echoing from down the hallway. The laughter of a child is heart-swelling in the daylight, and petrifying in the dead of night.

“Enj? Who’re you talking to?” Louis asked kindly, turning on the light in the hallway. Enjolras looked brightly at his father, and made a gesture towards his empty chair.

“Why, this is my brand new friend Eponine!”

“Eponine?”

“Yes. She is very nice. I’m trying to make her happy!” Louis turned away, his eyes wide. The grown man travelled very, very fast up the hallway into his bedroom, heart pounding.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” Marie asked, half-asleep.

“I’ve just wandered into a fucking Stephen King novel, that’s what is fucking wrong!” he hissed, huddling up next to his wife like a child.

“Lower your voice,” she answered.

“Our son is talking to thin air at three o’clock in the fucking morning!” Louis cried through gritted teeth. Marie felt her pulse quicken.

“Do you think he’s discovered polytheism?” Marie blurted out, her mind racing through all the possibilities.

“Polyth- what are you talking about, Marie? Are you mad?”

“Well I don’t know!”

“I think he talks to ghosts. Like those kids on the Discovery channel or whatever. Maybe he’s a, um, a physic or something.”

“A medium!”

“Yes, right, a medium!”

That was their conclusion; at least, it helped them sleep at night. Of course, they both worried that he was the anti-Christ, or something to that effect, but medium was a good compromise.

Strange instances like that continued to happen. One day in the summer, Marie, who was manager of the Café Musain (which had just be refurnished and now looked quite comfortable), decided to take him to work.

All the staff there adored him, and Marie adored the attention he got. It had become a friendly neighborhood over the years, too, so she also had little worries in letting him roam around the restaurant. So, at the end of her shift that night, she found him in the upstairs room, sitting on top of a table, obviously chatting with an invisible figure.

God, she dreaded these moments. Her little child had so much passion in his face when he spoke to these imaginary creatures, like he was having a proper conversation. Marie was superstitious too, so her heart quite often skipped a beat. Sometimes it made her feel better when Eve was around – perhaps it really was just a game with his sister. But today he was alone, and he had tears on his face.

“Who are you talking to, darling?” A loud sniffle was her response.

“Marius,” he answered quietly.

“And who’s that?” she asked, like she did every time he introduced a new name.

And his reply was always the same: “My friend.”

Marie walked cautiously over to the table, acknowledging the ghost-like quality the room maintained. (There supposedly had been a rebellion in the square outside a little over a hundred and fifty years before – that’s why the Musain had such a large tourist attraction.)

“Why are you crying, my love?” Her words were gentle, but her voice shook.

“I want Marius to know he is not alone,” he sighed. “He feels guilty, like it’s his fault – but it’s not.”

“What’s not his fault?”

But Enjolras didn’t reply. He simply buried his face in his mother’s shoulder, allowing her to carry him out into the street. Her sleeve was soaking by the time they reached the front door, not that it mattered.

“Dammit,” Marie swore upon noticing the heavy downfall. “Hold on, sweetheart, let me find an umbrella.” She set Enjolras down for a moment and turned away, but upon turning back, he was already in the middle of the square.

And he was dancing. It was a funny little dance – he spun in circles and jumped around and did a little jig.

She watched him with curiosity, feeling a strong wave of emotions flood her.

“Thank you!” he was shouting. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Who are you thanking?” Marie laughed, finding his happiness a relief.

The boy looked at her strangely, his eyes still red with tears.

“Grantaire. He makes it rain for me, when I’m sad.”

A few tears escaped Marie’s eyes. There was so much heartbreak in his sweet voice. Where in God’s name did all his sadness come from?

She watched as her little boy spun in the rain, laughing; she watched him glance towards the top window of the Musain and smile sadly; she watched him look intently at the empty air, and splash in the puddles; she heard him distinctly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

\--

Around Enjolras’ sixth birthday, the neighbors next door moved out and a new family moved in. It was especially exciting because there was a little girl Enjolras’s age. Marie prayed that they would get along – she would do anything to give Enjolras real, physical friendships.

The little girl was gorgeous; she had white curls and a smile that reminded her of Enjolras’s – youthful, but slightly _sad_.

“They’re getting along so well,” Marie sighed to her husband one evening. Outside of the window, the new little girl, Enjolras, and Eve were playing some sort of shooting game. She supposed it was pirates or superheroes or something – Enjolras had a plethora of toy guns (that she disliked entirely, but they were a gift from her brother) that looked like they were from the early 19th century. He ran around with a red towel in his fist.

“I’ve never seen him attach to someone so quickly. She must be just like him – eh, what’s her name again?” Louis asked, admiring the children.

“Her mom – Fluorine? – said her real name is Euphrasie, but she likes to be called something else. She thought it was strange too, but I told her it’s alright, our Gabriel likes to be called Enjolras, so we do.”

“What does she like to be called?”

“Cosette, I think.”

They had thought that perhaps Enjolras’ visions and imaginary friends would disappear now that he had real friends to take their place. But it seemed that Cosette only added to the madness. Marie and Louis had both heard, on separate occasions, Cosette speaking to a Courfeyrac, like the one that Enjolras and Eve used to have tea with.

Of course, throughout the years following, the pair (who had become best friends) were more subtle about their imaginary friends. They were almost normal (as Marie liked to put it – she was still baffled by how Cosette managed to see the same things Enjolras was seeing). Cosette was a fine young woman, and Enjolras had grown into a rather handsome young man. She was a wonderful writer, and he had leadership tendencies ingrained into his soul.

The names of his imaginary friends were long forgotten by both parents. It was simply a phase, Marie supposed.

Though, on graduation night, she had overheard this conversation:

“Sometimes I worry that I’m going to forget them completely,” Enjolras’ muffled voice was saying.

“I wouldn't worry about that,” Cosette sighed. “I mean, _we_ found each other. We've just got to let the universe do its work.”

They both went off to university in Paris, Eve quickly following them. There were somewhat close to home, but they rarely left school. It was heartbreaking for a mother, especially when she knew so little of what was going on with her son. Life went by pretty quickly after that.

For a while Marie had been convinced Enjolras and Cosette would marry each other, but senior year it was announced that Cosette was going to marry another boy (the name escaped Marie, though it sounded strangely familiar).

The wedding arrived and there was a boatload of familiar faces in the crowd. And a few not so familiar.

“Enj,” Marie murmured, summoning her son to the table. “Who’s that crowd over there? The motley looking crew?”

Enjolras looked at her with a pink face.

“Those are our friends from University, Mom.”

Marie studied their faces, and a strange recognition passed over her. She’d never seen their faces before…and yet she felt as if she’d known them for years.

“How did you meet them?” she asked, her eyes still trained on the satisfied faces. There was a girl there, surrounded by at least seven or so young men. Enjolras saw the realizations pass over his mother’s jolly face.

Her lips parted – Marius. Cosette was marrying a boy named Marius. _Marius_ , the boy from the Musain. Marius, and…no. No, no, it couldn't be. Was that even possible?

Enjolras bent down to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, a strange sense of completion in his eyes.

“The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end,” he replied. “If not always in the way we expect.”

The boy left to join his friends; her son, who for so long was happy only with his imaginary companions, began to laugh.


End file.
